~ An Author's Ramblings

Author Archives: Judah A Kessler

Generally speaking, from a religious perspective, Jews can be classified in 4 major categories: Orthodox (including the Ultra-Orthodox), Conservative, Reconstructionist (which is relatively new) or Reform. Of course, with-in each of these there are VAST variations, no distinct lines and most likely as many “grey areas” as there are people. And one might tend to think, especially non-Jews, that no matter what the sect, Jews are Jews are Jews. Right?

Well, you might be a bit surprised or even drastically shocked to learn that NOTHING could be farther from the fact. IN FACT, aside from the petty disagreements amongst the factions, there exist, even as you read this post, a rather small, insignificant in number but intensely powerful consortium of a particular sect that wields such authority that it can, and sometimes does, destroy those Jews who refuse to succumb to the wonts of its membership. No, there’s no decapitation, burning anybody alive, or stoning to death (as far as we know), but with a simple stroke of a pen, click of an e-mail “send” or the utterance of the fewest of words, a “Jewish Court” can, has and will ultimately tear a soul into innumerable and irreparable shreds, sever relations and relationships and obliterate entire family histories. The have done, are so-doing now and will, unfortunately as far as can be seen, continue to do so… under the guise of “Jewish Law”.

Death Of A Zionist is account of confrontation, the horrific, dark and dismal depression it caused and the recovery that followed. Recommended for those who believe “Zionism” is evil (which it actually is not and never has been), for those who find Judaism “mysterious”, and for those who need a hefty dose of REALITY about their own people.

A short story about a little, timeless village, built on an island in the middle of a gentle river that meanders through a vast, bucolic meadow that time forgot and the world never knew.

Massive stone buildings, cobble-stone streets, saphire-blue skies and a dream… only a dream… the dream, just in time for the Winter holidays, a quick and easy read to remind all of good times, good people, and those places we remember with the utmost love all our lives, no matter where they are, where they were and reamin, stead-fast, forever in our hearts.

Get the PDF e-book at the link. Grab a warm, cozy blanket, a mug of good tea, head for your favourite chair, turn off the world and enjoy a beautiful visit to a place so very far away and yet, as close as your own heart.

When, after some weeks, I was able to get to my little post office on Pine Street to fetch my mail, I got off the train, walked the blocks from Broadway, through the grey dust, breathing in the specks and stench of electric fire and remnants of The Trade Centre. There was grey dust, soot and ash, 12 inches deep and more in the gated entry-ways of closed buildings. It all looked like a post war photo. People walked about with sullen, blank stares.

By the time I got to the post office, I was trembling, needing so much to sob. My hand shook as I put the key into the lock on my post office box. In the little box was a notice: too much mail, come to the window.

At my turn, I stepped up to the counter, handed the clerk the notice. He took it, turned away and went to fetch my mail.

When he returned to the counter, he placed a small bundle of envelopes and such on the counter and smiled, as he usually did.

I looked into his eyes. “It’s good to see you.” I said, quietly.

His eyes welled with tears over his smile. “It’s good to see you too.” he replied.

“We’re still here.” I said, holding my voice steady.

“Yes we are.” he almost whispered. “Some of us… Yes we are.”

“See you tomorrow then.” I smiled.

“See you tomorrow. Thank you.” he replied.

● There are some things in life that can never be “un-done”:
The ringing of a bell,
the creaking of an old door,
the singing of a song,
the first chirp of a bird in the earliest morning hour,
a baby’s first cry,
the utterance of the words “I love you”
and the vivid memories of the morning of 11 September 2001…
the days that followed…
the stench of burnt buildings…
and people
in the New York City air…
and all the years there-after.

● My photos and Journal of that day and of the subsequent days are gone, stolen. But the images in my mind, heart and soul are as brilliantly vivid today as they were the moment they occurred. These can never be stolen… nor will they ever be forgotten. How strange, but even now I can still smell and taste that acrid soot-filled air.

Once upon a time, in a time dark and long ago, one would visit one’s local library, roam and search through drawers or racks of newspapers old, yellowed, fading, dust-covered, in search of possible information concerning some-one known, remembered and perhaps not heard from in quite a considerable while.

Browsing editions, page after page, trying one’s best to be completely exhaustive, one may have found a mention some-where in the contents printed in an “Evening News” or “Herald Tribune” or a “Post”. One may have done… or not.

Today, we are blessed with the good fortune of having access to this technology commonly referred to as the “Internet” where-by and where-with, one may “log on” and perhaps “log-in” and with a “click” here and there, connect to a service called a “search engine”. Having so-done, all one need do further is type, in an appropriate space, a name, location if applicable and with yet, another “click” THERE! An often OVER-abundance of information (now referred to as “data”) related to that name, that person of interest, from near and far and even beyond (OK. “Beyond” is still a bit questionable, but then, so too is much of the available information. Just because you read it on the Internet doesn’t necessarily make it true.)appears on the lighted screen before us! Click here, click there, scroll scroll, click click and ALL sorts of information is presented… and we needn’t dress nor leave the very place in which we’re established.

WARNING!!! Given and to be taken as wise and sagely advice:
When, in the course of your existence, you reach a certain point where-by your presence on this earth is measured in time expressed in double-digits representative of any considerable duration… DO NOT LOOK-UP “OLD” FRIENDS OR ACQUAINTANCES WITH WHOM YOU HAVE NOT COMMUNICATED IN OR FROM WHOM YOU HAVE NOT RECEIVED WORD OR NEWS IN ANY GREAT WHILE!

Obituaries are published on the Internet and there is a VAST difference between wondering IF some-one has died and reading that indeed, they have done. And “Time” sees to it that eventually, you will be reading more and more obituaries of more and more people you have known.

Doing so takes a toll.

Have you ever noticed how some people seem to grow old and become more introverted, removed from general society, pre-occupied with an undisclosed thought and generally either impatient or simply disinterested in most of what transpires around them? Ever wondered what could possibly cause this affect?

Wonder no more, no longer, no farther. The secret?

Obituaries.

If you’re not in one yet, reading them will have you in a mention sooner than later.

Altruism declares that any action taken for the benefit of others is good, and any action taken for one’s own benefit is evil. Thus the beneficiary of an action is the only criterion of moral value – and so long as that beneficiary is anybody other than oneself, anything goes.
Ayn Rand

Let’s none of us kid or fool our-selves. Giving of time, possessions, compassion, self is a lesson most, if not all of us are taught from the very moment that we are able to comprehend language, any language. Even from a time that we might no longer recall, the indoctrination of “giving” began. “Sharing” one’s toys with the little fellow or gal who lives next-door or simply comes to visit is impressed upon us as being virtuous, kind, good. Sharing our sandwich at school lunch with some-one who appears “less blessed” or “short” is rewarded with a kind note from teachers, parents and perhaps, other school-mates (who have been like-wise indoctrinated). And “gift-giving” of all types and fashions is globally approved by the vast, vast majority of beings. Have you ever seen a pet dog or cat pick up a favoured toy, humbly carry it to another dog or cat, lay it at the feet of the other and step back or walk away? In a gathering of several people, the air is suddenly filled with the droning “Awwwww….”, heart-felt chorus of approval and delight.

As we grow, as we age, but not necessarily as we “mature”, since “maturity” truly has nothing to do with the length of time one exists nor has it anything to do with how much or little one experiences, what is impressed most and strongest is that giving with the expectation of reciprocity is negative, wrong. When we give, so it’s stressed, we ought or even must do so simply for the sake of giving, never expecting or hoping that the kindness will ever be returned in any fashion, form or manner. Giving must be a selfless act, performed simply because, as I, myself was told, one can, one should, one must and, if ALL people on Earth were to do so, no one would be with-out, everyone would have all that each one needs or desires and global contentment would reign in full glory.

Religion, generally defined as a belief in and reverence for a supernatural power or powers regarded as creator and governor of the universe, will dictate and attempt to convince us that every “good deed” will be rewarded with like, similar or equal reciprocity, either “in this world or the next”. But no matter what, how, when or where, no act of kindness will be un-seen, un-known, and will never be unrequited. Eventually, even if after our death, brutal or peaceful, every kindness will be addressed, redressed and rewarded. Some deity, god, force, being, spirit will look upon us, know the kindness of our heart and will make divine note of our action and will ensure that or deed does not fall by the way-side… ever.

Ah yes? Here and now? Or later in some “after-life” that, by the way, still, to the moment in which this essay is composed, has never been proven, infallibly, to be factual?

Indeed, if one is of the inclination, one may argue that, should one live comfortably, relatively or really, that one’s “blessings” are the results of one’s kindnesses bestowed upon others, whether they were in need or simply in want of such.

“I saw that he had nothing to eat and no way of getting anything to eat, so I brought him to the diner and paid a wonderful lunch. I do that frequently and look, I, myself am never with-out food.”

Superstition? I ask you. Or tangibly and incontrovertibly provable fact?

Which-ever we choose to believe, based on the success of the indoctrination imposed upon us in early years and through-out a life-time, the bottom-line foundation of fact remains that (a) by the very nature of the “reward” of being “never with-out food” and (b) believing that being “never with-out food” is a result of having provided food for another obliterates any relationship with or to “altruism”.

How-so? you may ask. Simple, I should reply. Because “altruism” by its own definition dictates the the “altruist” may never, and I stress never benefit directly from any act of kindness or giving. No matter what the fashion, the deed must simply be done solely for the purpose of fulfilling a dictate: Do simply for the sake of doing because it must be done not for the sake of one’s self but for the sake of Creation as a whole. Once done, the matter of the action ceases to ever have existed. The person in need is no longer in need, therefore the needing person no longer exists. Because that needing person no longer exists, your contribution to the need is no longer a matter of concern and therefore, becomes non-existent in and of itself. You, having given, are neither happy nor sad because of having given, you experience neither gain nor loss of any kind because of having given, your mood, life, existence experiences no change, positive nor negative and you neither acknowledge or are acknowledged for having done.

Now, take a brief moment and honestly, deeply and sincerely ponder: How often and for how long can you continue an existence of this kind? Doling out, incessantly, to others, in time, effort, materials, even knowledge, with absolutely NO thanks or even a basic acknowledgement of your action or contribution? (And, before jumping into some far-fetched conclusion, be reminded: “Mother Theresa” has been “canonized” by the Catholic church as a “saint”… therefore, she has been acknowledged AND rewarded for her acts of kindness, not to mention, she and her “cause” were funded by many during the course of her life-time. She was not an “altruist”, by any means of the term by definition.) Again, consider the extent of ability and capability of any person, self or other, who gives repeatedly, to do so with-out some form of reparation. And as you consider, remember that we are taught that this is the proper way in which to give, no matter what, how, how many times or for how long. “Give and do because one must, and not because of any promise, factual or other-wise, of remuneration.”

Eventually, no matter how wonderful or “divine” we may believe ourselves to be, like a well run dry, a reservoir turned arid pit, if not our material possessions, our heart and soul will empty, the ability to give and give freely will cease because at some point, our spirit, our soul will starve… ultimately to its death. “Altruism” will have murdered… not only the soul but the very being, the giving will have depleted all, leaving nothing but an empty presence surrounding a void. The breath and blood of humanity will have been drawn to nothing. The kind and giving heart will fail to beat its next, and eyes will either dim into a dismal darkness of depression having been ignored, taken for granted and abused or they will open to the realisation of the reality that either the giving cease and taking or acceptance of that given by others commence or certain death and no further existence will be inevitable.

Difficult to accept. Difficult to imagine for some. But… let’s none of us deceive or fool ourselves. To give continually might certainly be some-what admirable, if appreciated. How-ever, there is NO NEED nor is there ANY good sense to give continuously, lest we demand swift and painful self-annihilation.

Bear in mind, as word of advice and warning that there is a deep-set and deep-rooted truth in a rather old and sagely adage:

When I treat others as they treat me
they think I’m rude, hateful or angry with them.

How the reminders of passing years continue to haunt those of us still possessing a beating heart and a functioning memory.

43 years ago today, in the dead of a Winter night, what truly was “an era”, a time of joy for a great many, disappeared in a golden-red glow against a deep indigo-grey sky. Today, I don’t suppose there really would have been any “hope” for the old place, considering its age at the time already. And yes, I do suppose that it rather did call out for some repairs and the likes. But one thing that sticks in my own aging mind is the report that, as it burned, back up there on the hill, the “kind” folks of Washingtonville, NY gathered together, in spite of the dark and cold, massed together at the dirt-road entrance to the grounds, and blocked the fire responders from getting there in time to save even a bit of the old place. “Kind”… The people of a quiet, bucolic, gentle little Orange county NY, rural village.

To them, it made no difference whether or not anybody was in the building. To them, it wasn’t important that somebody’s financial investment, never mind, emotional investment, was being destroyed. To the kind and gentle, happy little folk of Washingtonville, the moments of happiness the place provided for others was insignificant. Never mind the refuge, sanctuary and safety it, the place, and its owner gave to so very many who truly needed such a place, back then.

There was food in the kitchen, drinks at the bar, music on the juke box and acres of “secrets”, of romance, hardships, some drama, and a lot of true, real and honest “love”.

The food was turned to ash, the drinks, to empty, broken, charred glass. And as the glowing orange sparks danced into the darkness of the night, the juke box and its music went silent, lights went out, the 45’s melted and cremated. The grand old front porch crumbled and lay in a bed of glowing embers and cinders. And souls of the living, rose into the Heavens, there, and around the Earth.

We became “Mr. G’s Roundhill Lodge in exile”… in an eternal diaspora.

Out-side the village, off the double-lane paved highway, at the end of an old dirt road that wound its way through the wood-land, over a little brook, away from the world, it stood in rustic, old elegance and glory. Settled on a little hill-top, surrounded by the local old and worn mountains, divinely bucolic by day and vibrant with life and living by night, Mr. G’s welcomed us all, all of us who came to it as pilgrims travel long and far to a remote place on Earth, to purge torn and weary souls, and bask in a divinity of kindred spirits, to commune with one-another and with one’s self. We were “welcome” and “welcomed” there, for who we honestly were and who we dreamed we could or might be.

As it lived, and we lived, the main house, the stone house, the bungalows, the ever-cold, spring-fed swimming pool at the end of the wood-land path, the buildings and the very earth it all rested upon pulsed with solid heart-beats, embraced by anticipation, joys and even sorrows of Life itself. When the music from with-in the main house went still, the rhythms, beats, melodies and lyrics continued, in the breezes that blew across the tall grasses and through the old trees. Songs that made the spirit dance and those that comforted the weary souls. Comfort, and even in the heaviest of times, the consolation of others, all together with one simple, basic purpose: a unity that spanned the entire universe, to support one another, when-ever and how-ever was necessary and possible. In sickness, good health, rejoicing and mourning, in times of concurrence and times of disagreement, the commonality of one and all, drinking, dancing, sharing meals and time created more of a “family” amongst familiar faces and strangers than many, if not most, had, even in their own houses and homes. It was a place of shelter, of togetherness. It was a place of protection, from the elements of living, from the elements of existence, from the elements of Life. It was a place of nourishment of body, mind and soul, and it was a place of rejuvenation, often at the end of a week of anxiety, uncertainty, and shrouds of oppression and pretense. There was an un-seen and un-seeable energy in and of the place that penetrated deep into the core of being that lent assurance and the ability, the right, to “be”, to breathe free and freely. If ever a place could be truly called “Home”… this was it.

In the buildings and all around the grounds, we, who gathered, were allowed to shed inhibitions, to open hearts and minds. We were as diverse as the global population itself, a microcosm of all of Creation. We were proud and humble, rich and poor, troubled and trouble-free. We were tall, short, Black, White, men, women, local and from a-far. We came from farms, cities large and small, towns, villages and solitary houses out in the most rural of landscapes. We were different, similar and same all at once. We fell into and out of like, lust and LOVE! And together we celebrated the joys and mourned the sorrows as we all healed… one-anther, each-other, together.

And.. we danced! And HOW we danced! With steps that had names and others that were more improv expressions of mind, body, soul, spirit! We… DANCED! Some danced in celebration, of something, anything, nothing and everything. Others danced with memories of people, places, events. There were those who danced in joy, and those who danced in sadness. Finger-popping, bangle jangling, singing, whistling, or simply caught up in the rapture of song. “1.2.3.4.5.6.7.8” “You better think… Think bout It” and remember that “Everybody Plays the Fool… sometimes”. So you just “Get On The Good Foot”, because “I’ll Be Around”, “You’re The First, The Last, My Everything”. We’ve all got a “Mighty Love”, a “One Of A Kind Love Affair”. And if you find that “Smiling Faces Sometimes… pretend to be your friend” and the world can have more than a fair share of “Back Stabbers”, and you ask yourself “Where Is The Love?” it’s all really quite clear and simple: It’s “Too Late To Turn Back Now”, because “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face” I said “If Loving You Is Wrong, I Don’t Wanna Be Right”. So “Let’s Stay Together” because “I Wanna Be Were You Are”, we’ll start a “Love Train” and “Until You Come Back To Me”… “I’m Still In Love With You”. That’s the “Law Of The Land”.

Directly or indirectly, consciously and unconsciously, we believed, thought, hoped and probably prayed that G’s would never end, would be there for us through all the years that lay ahead of us. For some, the years were many, and for some the years numbered shorter. But even facing realities, kind and harsh, some little place in our hearts held some crazy little belief that the music might change, the faces and names might change, the buildings and such might change… but they’d change… and always be where they were, on those nights when we arrived, on those mornings when we left and that they’d stay, right there, on Roundhill, waiting for us to return.

I’d moved away from the area during the latter part of 1973, off to new adventures, and, as my dearest mother succinctly pointed out, “100,2 miles from door to door”. But on that Saturday, the 26th of January, 1974, I’d returned for a visit. The details of the travel are gone to the deep recesses of my aged and aging mind, but there is one memory that remains clear, and one wound that remains open and sore even today, 43 years later:

It had been a usual January sort of day, weather-wise, with normal Winter weather in the Hudson Valley, a bit on the grey and drizzly side. That night was cooler and rainy. (Yes, I DO remember.)

That evening I was looking very much forward to having dinner with my Mum, then relaxing for a bit and then… as was almost common-place and routine when I lived at home, heading out and onto the roads to Mr. G’s for a Saturday night with friends. I hadn’t been in quite the while and the matter, as usual, hadn’t been discussed at all previously. So I went about the business of having a shower and changing my clothes. As I got back into the kitchen, almost ready to head out, and by this point it was well passed 9:00pm, my Mother, standing at the kitchen sink asked, “Where are you going?”

A bit taken by surprise by her enquiry, believing and taking for granted that she knew where I’d spent so many Saturday nights before and that tonight, she’d know where I was heading, I simply, respectfully replied, “To G’s of course.”

“No you’re not.” she said, calmly and not at all confrontationally.

“And why not?” I asked.

With-out a spoken word, she walked into the living-room and returned with the local news-paper which she placed onto the kitchen table, front page face up. I recall, so vividly, glancing at the page, seeing a black and white photo of firemen standing in front of a smouldering building which meant nothing to me at the moment. My Mother turned away and went back to her chores at the sink as I looked closer… at the caption under the photo, centre-page. It read:
“BUILDING BURNS – A large structure at Mister G’s, Round Hill Resort on Rt. 208, Washingtonville, was destroyed by fire Sunday night. Here firemen douse smouldering embers. Story Page 5A”

In the same state of non-belief that one might experience upon receiving news of the death of a loved one, I turned to page 5A as calmly as I possibly could. On page 5A was a brief account of some minor injuries of attending fire-men and the passing mention that the fire department in Washingtonville, along with those of several surrounding towns, took 12 hours to extinguish the blaze.

All through that week she’d known. But she didn’t have it in her heart to tell me. She said she didn’t know how to tell me. Even as we’d chatted through the day, she’d known, but couldn’t find it in her heart to say. For so long, she’d known what that place had been to me, what it meant to me, and, in many ways, how it saved my life, even to the few weeks before I’d left home and moved so far away. She knew, she understood and she anticipated the crushing devastation that the news would inflict. Even as she placed the paper on the table, words failed. Mothers know. Mine knew me.

To be quite honest, I don’t, to this day, remember what the rest of that cold, wet night brought. But in the days that followed, telephone calls confirmed the article. Nobody, it seemed, knew exactly what had caused the fire. There were rumours of arguments between George, the owner, and a guest who set the blaze in retaliation. There were rumours of disgruntled hired staff having set the fire in a fit of maddened revenge. But the one story that never made the news, but had been confirmed by eye witnesses that night was that yes, indeed, as the fire consumed the main house, set back off the main road, away from the nearest village of Washingtonville, the residents, never pleased about the Lodge’s presence, turned-out, on that cold, Winter, January night, at 11:30pm, and with their vehicles and persons, created a barricade across the only entrance to the dirt road that led up to the place, detaining for as long as they possibly could, the responding fire companies, essentially prohibiting them from promptly attending the fire.

The years have passed, as years do, all 43 of them. And as I type this tonight, only a day from the 43rd anniversary of the event, as has been all through each and every day, month and year prior, I can still close my eyes, and in the darkness behind shuttered lids, in my mind, my heart and my soul I can travel back to the gravel parking area, in front of the old plantation-like main house. I can hear the juke box singing from inside the main door in the centre of the large front porch that spanned the entire length of the house, and with the same joyful anticipation I had back then, I climb the old wooden stairs, walk into the main foyer, see the people wandering about, talking, laughing, some holding a drink. I can still smell the various colognes and hear, over the music coming from the rear room to the right, conversations and laughter. The room, with it’s black floor, small, round tables round the perimeter, juke box against the wall to the right as I enter, and people, dancing… And HOW they dance!

Many of them are now “gone”. I always wonder how many are still around, still alive. I always wonder how many of them still remember. And I do suppose, I always will. I like to think of those who’ve “left” as having gone back to G’s, some-where up in the vast and endless night skies, to where the music still plays, the vignettes of Life continue, and they all still dance… and HOW they dance!

And as for George, the owner of Mr. G’s Round Hill Lodge? Well, I can’t be certain where he is these days, other than one place where I can guarantee he remains and will be, safe, sound, respected and much Loved… and that’s in my heart, where he’ll stay until I too am blessed with the ability to return, to travel up that dark old dirt road, through the woods, over the brook, past the spring-fed chilly pool, to the gravel lot at the foot of the old wooden stairs where again, I’ll climb up to the front door, and with the same joyful anticipation of then, walk through and in to that room in the back… AND HOW I’LL DANCE AGAIN!

Meanwhile, from the old juke box against the wall on the right, the music plays in distant but vivid memory:

Good morning heart-ache, here we go again.
Good morning heart-ache, you’re the one who knew me when…

At a fork in an un-known road, to bear left, right or move forward.
To give priority to one chore or another.
Send a letter to a friend, acquaintance, business associate, or wait a while.
Speak your mind and heart or remain silent.
Give a word of advice, or keep still.
Offer an opinion, or refrain.
Whether to bide for one’s self or, in an attempt to be of help to another, bide in place.

Decisions.

Rather recently, I was given a word of advice, from someone I’ve known for quite a long while, someone for whom I’d given much of my own time and energy and who advised me with caring and compassion. She is my elder, a woman of great world experience, who, like me, had deferred much of her own time and comfort, her life, for the sake of the comfort of others in many different manners. In a conversation about our years of knowing each-other she said:
“You’ve spent your life doing for others, even to the point of your own detriment. You’ve done so for me and for my family, just as you’ve done for so very many others. And when I tell you that I appreciate your kindness and concern more than I could ever express, I tell you this: I hope that, someday, you’ll learn to do for yourself as well because it’s about time you started to do so. There’s nothing wrong with doing something for yourself some times. And it’s time you at least started. You’re very keen on telling others to take care of themselves, reminding them that if they’re not good for and to themselves, they won’t be able to be of much good to or for others. Well, I’m sure that we all would agree that now, you need to take your own advice and do something good for you.

I thanked her for her advice and for the magnificent compliment she gave me, and too, for her appreciation of what-ever I’d done for her and hers. And I promised her that I would make every best effort to follow her advice, in gratitude of her direction and validation of my intentions and efforts.

Shortly after, when presented with the need to do so, I made a decision: to follow my dream and pursue the possibility of fulfilling that dream, or to “bide”, to stay for even a bit longer where I was, in order to help an other in a time of chaos and turmoil. I stayed, for what was expected to be only a short while. I deferred my ambition, believing that all would, in the end, turn out fine, that I would be of assistance, positive help, that the conflict would pass and then, in the calm that would prevail, I could continue on, move along, to my own happiness and peace.

It comes to pass that although, for the while, my aid was successful and appreciated, I forfeited, utterly and completely, my opportunity to attain my own ambition, goal and dream. As I lent all I had toward being selfless and helpful, time passed… and with it, my own chance at happiness and contentment. “The boat sailed… and as I’ve learnt, disappeared beyond the far Western horizon, the sun has set on a chance for my own happiness.” And as I compose this post, I am, with-out dramatics or exaggeration, “devastated”. As I read the information rather confirming my loss, my chest caved, my heart turned heavy as mercury, and the hope that I’d been holding so near and dear simply vanished into the cold Winter night. The words of kind, supportive advice hissed in my ears:

“I hope that, someday, you’ll learn to do for yourself as well…”

Yes, our lives are a series of decisions… and now, too late, I’ve learnt that my recent decision was quite stupid because, although someone else is now reasonably comfortable, to the point where my personal investment is simply taken for granted… the light ahead that I once aspired toward, is now nothing but darkness.

Am I angry? Resentful? No. Not really. I was in a place at a time where I was able to help when called to do so. And now that moment has passed. So too, the moment when I had the opportunity to do something, to make a move toward my own true happiness has passed. Just as fire and flood take from us, house, property, mementos, things dear and cherished with no chance of such things returning ever again, rather than bemoan the loss to no good ends, I hear, in my mind and soul, the words of support, kindness, compassion and today I heed them with serious and severe attention:

“I hope that, someday, you’ll learn to do for yourself as well…”

If ever the opportunity lost now is re-presented, in any manner, I know I’ll make yet another decision… to follow the advice of a caring friend because as of now, I know that I’m of little good to others because I feel I’m of no good to myself. .. no good what-so-ever.

It was posted recently to their Facebook page, and although I am not a “fan” of Facebook, I tend to browse my page there occasionally. Today, some-how, it seems I was supposed to go there because The Coalition has posted a few videos on their page, one of which, reached into my soul.

The Coalition is a magnificent group of people! Unless you experience them and their work directly, there truly is no way to fully describe or sufficiently explain how incredibly valuable they are. The history of the organisation is nothing short of amazing and their contemporary works and efforts are, well, astonishing!

Thankfully, I have the capability of offering one of their videos here, on my own blog, but I want, so very much, to encourage you all to view the video AND visit their web-site! Read what they’ve posted about themselves and rest assured, they’re being humble. I can tell you… from personal experience* that what-ever they say about themselves is nothing when compared to the work they actually perform!

The best I can say here is:
When you see those “Christmas” images, the ones of the deep indigo mid-night sky, and there, in all that darkness, the brilliant star shining in the Heavens… well… that star is “The Coalition”.

Drop by the Promos & Previews page for the details. It’s just published and will be available here for FREE for only a very limited time. (One special request: When you’ve done reading – it’s only 11 pages – please come back to leave a comment or review. I’d truly appreciate it.)

Tonight, at sun-down, Sunday, 2 October 2016, and until sun-down on Tuesday, 4 October, Jews in North America, observe (and, hopefully, celebrate) the beginning of a new year on the Hebrew calendar. Here, in New England, Jews tend to be rather novel, scarce. But through the thousands of years in a diaspora, we’ve learnt to observe, and celebrate, with and with-out others. It’s another of those times when we simply toss our hearts and faith to the “Great Ether” and have faith that some-how, our spirits will be united with all the others that and who are celebrating, all round the planet.

It’s a time of happiness, hope and joy and since those times are rather rare of late, I want to take this opportunity to say that I hope every-one will take advantage of this holiday and in your own way, celebrate the chance to re-commence, to start fresh and new, with great inspiration and energy, with new hope. And may this “new year” be one that’s FULL of much joy, great health, and most important of all… *Contentment*.